Little Saint Bride [Death and the Maiden, #1]

Chapter Nine: The Kiss of Death

'Your friend is made of marble.'

'Don't be so rude! He's sensitive,' Mercer protests.

'He's really not,' I sigh. 'He's not anything, he's a statue.'

Mercer looks at me, then back at the statue, and then his eyes widen. In particular, he quickly glances down at the naked man's carved genitalia.

'Lord! Who was I talking to before? Where did the gentleman go?'

I don't have the heart to tell him there never was anyone. So, I brush over the subject as though people turn into marble statues on a regular basis. Maybe here in the Underworld, they do.

'What are you drinking?' I ask.

Mercer burps, forgetting about the statue and instead leaning on it. He slides down it, and then rights himself, glaring at the ground for uprooting him.

'A Tart...Tartarus,' Mercer chuckles at a private joke.

I'm not laughing. 'How did you get this drunk, in the space of a few moments?'

To my surprise, Mercer gives me an answer that I can drink to.

'I saw you get sold off as an item by dying.'

I laughed, my smile reaching my eyes. 'Why, thank you, Mercer. I'm beginning to think I'm glad you were killed after all.'

That's too much for drunk Mercer's brain to handle. He looks at me with a confused expression. I steer him sharply to a seat and swap his bottle of "Tartarus"— whatever that is— with a pitcher of water.

'Drink,' I instruct him.

As he slurps, I eye the room for Cerberus. She's over by the food table, still gobbling whatever one of her three jaws can lay a tooth on. I'm impressed, but it's no help.

My eyes jump to the ceiling, where the centre chandelier and surrounding lamps are lit by alchemy. In recent years, scholars have invented a way to light a room without candles or torches. We'd had basic education on it, but I'd bet Mercer might have even had it, being from a wealthy family.

And my idea forms like a brilliant storm, all the clouds and raindrops and lightning coming together. But as soon as my idea rises like a dough, the realisation of the help I need popped every ounce of hope.

Mercer burps again.

Well, I can't ask Cerberus to do it...

'Mercer,' I say, and my tone has become suspiciously nicer. The naïve boy fixes his eyes on me with some difficulty.

'Yeah?'

'I need your help.'

That sobers him up somewhat. 'You do?'

'Please. I need you to find the power for that—' I jerk my thumb in the direction of the chandelier, light flashing into tiny stars from its crystals, '— and make sure it goes off, at least for a few minutes.'

Mercer seems to think about this. I'm worried already.

'Deal,' he says, and I realise that the hand he's wobbling towards my breasts is a handshake, not a lewd gesture. 'But on one condition.'

'What's that?'

'No more laughing at me,' he says, and his eyes are serious.

For a moment, I almost feel sorry for how I've treated him. Then I remember that I'm dead, in some sort of hell or limbo, and there's nothing really going for me to be a nice person anymore.